


Hopeful-Hopeless-Hopeful

by orphan_account



Series: Wordplay fics. [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Coming Out, Japanese food, Louis x OMC is only mentioned, M/M, There's an older japanese guy working with haz, also all my characters are pretty much from varied backgrounds, also descriptions of the village and scenarios, i joke, mentions of sex (non-graphic), rosalie whose black, theres me who is an indian, theres zayn who'smuslim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 10:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15313428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Begins with Haz's everyday life. We get an insight on Haz as a person.Later we fast forward through the scene from part 1, and go over Louis' back story during dinner. Umm, special mentions for dinner, coz completely Japanese, I mean "sugoi desu" & "ittadakimasu".





	Hopeful-Hopeless-Hopeful

**Author's Note:**

> Overuse of the Hope trope (lol it rhymes).

Unlike most people he knew, Adrian wasn’t exactly a recovery case. Adrian was a simple-looking man, with a simple life. To Harry, Adrian wasn’t all that entrancing, enthralling or enigmatic. Adrian was like most other men his age; bland, aging, boring and without a deep background story. Was there anything that could make him a little more interesting? Harry wanted depth and Adrian’ eyes didn’t seem to fulfil the purpose. But as they sat across each other at the restaurant on 15th and Churchill Street, Harry wanted a look into an average man’s life.

He struck up a conversation and found the man across answer along the lines of ‘I am uninteresting’ and ‘I am as average as they come’. It didn’t strike a fire in Harry. Harry lived for depth, risks and adventures, but these people all bored him. Where was the ever-looming darkness of one’s heart? Where was the back story that made any character a worthy protagonist? Where was the thrill of a frizzy childhood? Where were the scars? Where was the trauma? Where was the deep meaning of life hidden in each of the souls? Where was that spark?

Sheesh, hollow vessels and the society’s dogs, that was all these men were, nothing they could call their own.

That was 8 years ago, when Harry was fresh on the scene of pain and journalism and words. Harry always wanted stories that would touch the heart, not something that happens every day. If he wanted to know what happens every day he would go live with his accountant dad.

 His dad, one of the most boring, straight-faced men he had ever seen. First time Harry had this thought, he was in his fourth grade, his dad was a chubby old man, with a balding head, a double chin, and the face of a man who is a doormat, nothing more or less. A man who lets others walk all over him, with orders or in reality, just like he let his wife and Harry’s mum walk all over him, and run away with his money, well there were no other words Harry could think of.

Harry felt the happiness course through his tired bones, but he also knew that something interesting would happen today; he could feel the magnetic attraction towards the life he craved. He felt like it would be a great day.

Living at the same place you work in, had a few pros and cons to it. You get out of bed and you are at work, but you step out of the room and the ultimate fusion of personal and private life hits you like a bullet train.

“Morning, boss! The scripts from Delaware’s has arrived and the extra 500 copies for the last issue are waiting to be delivered, the online purchase orders for the new frames for the photo shoot are to be reviewed and here’s your coffee.” Ruby, his assistant/ secretary/ manager said to him the moment he stepped out of his room.

Harry lived in a three floor studio, his living quarters along with the recreation area was on the third floor, the editing, photography, animation and creative departments were on the second floor, the first floor was packaging and distribution, advertising, sales, servers and other IT related stuff and a storehouse.

“Could I get another coffee? I pulled an all-nighter with the Sirens to get the latest anti-porn columns ready and edited. Getting it to the printers was a headache; Matsuda was here with me till four. Ah, also, I need to speak to Scar, and Wazi, the designs were to be changed for Pride Month; the prints as well as the billboards. I already talked to the ad agency, the team is already on it, but I need to get the editors in line already. It’s already the 3rd.” Harry said as he sipped into his coffee.

His office had a simple cycle that consisted of four phases. The first phase started on the second week of the month, and was called the happy phase, because new month, new work, sales details, new interviews and a simple 6 hour duty. The second phase came on the third week and was called the grumpy phase, because with new meetings came new schedules, new interviews brought new people who needed to be comforted and building a rapport out of the blue is a tough job, plus extra hours of work.

 The third phase was the last week of the month and was called the ‘do-or-die’ phase and unironically also the most difficult phase because deadlines and production meetings and all-nighters with writers and artists was the theme of the week. And the last phase was the ‘clusterfuck of emotions’ week, because finally the editors job was done but the aftermath of each month’s chaotic deadline scheduling would leave everyone on the verge of a nervous breakdown at the drop of a hat. Sales review, column popularity, magazine ratings, interview ratings reviews everything happened all at once leaving a stressful insomnia inducing hyper hell.

It was the 3rd of the month, meaning yes, it was the first week, magazine release happened on a Sunday, so better market ratings and all that knick-knacks but with it comes in reviews from the readers as to what needs to be changed, what needs to do better, what requires smoother administration and all that stresses the people out. New designs, stats analysis, last minute editing, contemporary deadlines and the over dosing of Redbulls and coffees.

It was a jittery mess. But amongst that there were trustworthy people who worked like hidden forces, pulling their teams together and working through every hurdle. Harry appreciated all that they did for their production.

“Wazi, man, listen, urgent design team meeting in conference room 2, also where is Scar?” Harry asks as he walks into the Designing HoDs cabin.

“She is in a conference call with Matsuda-san and Zayn Malik from Dezign Studio M.” Wazi says.

“Oh, what does Zayn have to do with her now?” Harry asks as he shuffles through a couple of files he brought with him.

“I guess he wanted to get some reviews on his latest designs and also, Scar is trying to rope him in for an interview. Him being a rehabilitated alcoholic. He is supposedly three years clean now. He is an interesting chap. Also, I think that is the reason why Matsuda-san is in the conference call right with her.” Wazi explains as he pulls up the review templates he had prepared for Pride last year.

“Okay, meetings in 30 minutes.” Harry says as he leaves with a smile.

Harry sits down in his cabin, pulls up his hair in a bun, wears his glasses and looks at the files the sales department forwarded. He then goes over the delivery details for the last issue and forwards a few emails to the concerned personnel.

Harry has a meeting during lunch, with a man who faced abuse from his wife for three years before raising a voice for help. He has great sympathy for the man and talks him through everything, listens to his story, comforts him and treats him to lunch.

By three in the afternoon he is free and walks to his favourite library, Harry grew up on those steps, asking around for stories and reading them on those very steps. He had a close attachment to the place ever since his school days. But today, the steps don’t capture his attention, it’s a man in a suit blowing bubbles and that looks extremely thought-provoking or so he hopes. The man doesn’t look on in despair; instead he looks full of life somehow, but an aged look in his eyes. That’s the man, the man he was looking for, a man with a story of his own.

He talked to the man, but he knew how he looked, Harry looked every bit a man who was kind of crazy. Well, in his own mind he looked like a junkie, (it was Gemma’s idea to make him wear these clothes and do his hair that way. Though the past few days were full of all-nighters so he barely had any sleep and his dark circles were enhanced, damn him for being dedicated, I guess) anyone would be scared to talk to him. His friends in college used to call him slender-man every time he pulled an all-nighter; he guessed he was looking the part today.

He gave the man his card and gave his own asking him to call Ruby for an appointment. Right before he was about to say something else, he saw Bart and Paul pull-over in front of them. They opened the door for him and he got in thanking them. Right before Bart closed the door, he asked Louis, the man, to bring his bubble pipe the next time they met.

He thought Louis was a little bit cute, and a ray of sunshine on a rainy afternoon.

~~~

 

Sitting opposite to Louis at the same restaurant as always, it’s his fixed spot; the seat by the third window under the painting of running horses, the waiters and waitresses all know him, the emcee knows his favourite songs and the lighting always sets the mood for comfort. His drink is the same, a 1989 Chardonnay, followed by the chicken tender fries and finger chips and for the second drink a scotch on the rocks. And whatever the other guest orders.

“Rosalia, it’s great to see you! Last time I came, you were on leave, exams coming up, I guess?” Harry asks his waitress, the woman- young girl was in her early twenties, still a grad student at Queens Mary University, and had a rich chocolaty colour that melted right into her eyes and curly hair that always up in a top-bun with a few stray curls. She nods as a reply.

“Harry. Gentlemen. I am Rosalie; I’ll be your waitress this fine evening. I’ll be back to take your orders. For tonight’s drinks, we have opened a special 1965 White Wine from the vineyards of Canetti’s, Rome. And have Alabama Slammers and Bellinis.” She asks in her professional tone.

“I’ll have the wine, thank you! Louis...?” Harry asks.

“I’ll take the Alabama Slammer, please and thank you!” Louis offers with a smile. Rosalie leaves with a smile and a smirk towards Harry, mistaking Louis for a date.

“So you are a regular here, I guess?” Louis asks with a soft smile.

“I bring all my interviewees here. They know this place is very accepting as well as pretty homely with outstanding ambience and hospitality. Plus, the emcee plays all my favourite songs and the waiters know my order. See she is bringing our finger-foods with the drinks. They just know, plus no one interrupts a conversation and it’s plenty private.” Harry says with a full smile. “Thanks Rosalie.” Harry says taking a sip of his wine.

“Thank you.” Louis says as she places his drink and their food on the table.

“Have you decided?” Rosalie asks.

“Chef’s special, what is Horan cooking up today?” Harry asks.

“Tonight our chef has prepared smoked salmon with Japanese tea rice and tempura shrimp with dried bonito sauce and octopus dumplings. And a side of pork cutlets Kyushu style.” Rosalie offers.

“I’ll take it.” Harry says, smiling widely. “Same for me.” Louis agrees.

“Two chef’s special, right up. Would you like a refill on you drinks or would you like to order our one-night only, warm Sake, a secret rice brew from one of the Kyoto temples that our chef acquired?”

“We’ll go for the sake.” Harry says.

The two of them share a glance at each other and smile into their hands. Japanese food that wasn’t sushi, Louis guessed he could learn to love it.

“So, Louis, tell me your story.” Harry asks as he picks up his fork and stabs it into a fry.

First thing Louis notices is that Harry doesn’t drizzle ketchup all over the fries, score one for Creepy Harry. Second thing he notices is that he doesn’t soak the fry into the ketchup either, he just lightly dabs a corners and opens his mouth to eat it. Third thing he notices is how Harry doesn’t eat like anyone else he has ever had a meal with; he opens his mouth wide, a pink tongue pokes out as if a landing patch for the food and then he picks the food with his teeth instead of his tongue and the fork come out clean, unlike people who lick their forks; that is disgusting. So yeah, Louis decided on what kind of a person Harry is by the manner in which he ate food.

Harry was a creepy looking dork. The people around him seemed to like him for some reason and he wasn’t nearly as harmful as he had thought. He was the owner of Prism Productions, the production house that just doesn’t publish Prism Magazine, but also publishes three other magazines and runs charities and advertises those support groups and organizations that stay out of the limelight due to their purpose of secrecy and security to its attendees.

Louis did his research. Harry was known for being an eccentric with a soft heart and a soul made of 24K gold. He made sure that 15% of all profits they made be sent to charities for orphans in Africa, Syria and Palestine, for patients with autism and cancer, and for other such drives that helped raise money for support.

He was friends with Art Gallery owner and artist Zayn Malik who made his name at the young age of 19 when he was a student of Royal College of Art, for his Picasso like eccentric art style with a lot of originality.

Though both of the men were highly criticized by art critics, media and a mass of people, Harry and Zayn have remained in a good light by the graces of their supporters. Zayn features quite a bit in Harry’s main magazine Prism, and they maintain a professional relationship. However, a massive percent of the people believe they are in a relationship. The fact remains a rumour.

Louis knew quite a lot about the public view of Harry, but knew little to nothing about the person himself. Somewhere, this fact scared Louis.

“What’s there to tell about me? I am just a 30 year old with a steady job that pays my mortgage and my fuel money, with a little savings that I planned for my retirement.” Louis said taking a sip of his drink.

“Come now Louis. I don’t want to know about your present life. Stories are never for the todays, they are for the yesterdays. Where were you born, who did you grow up with, what was your childhood like? Those kinds of questions. Answer these and kind of set the mood for story night. I know from your face, you are a raconteur. I mean it takes one to know one, right?” Harry knew in his heart that this man knew how to spin words and trap your minds.

Some people just have that look in their eyes, the kind of forlornness for company of brave hearts who can bear the brunt of a fiery story. It’s not everyday you meet such a fellow in passing. So if you think you are a brave heart, you need to pester the magsman to spin out the chronicles he hides in his pockets.

“A robber robs, a murderer kills, a swindler swindles, a bragger brags; but a fabulist lives them all.” Harry says with a crooked glint in his eyes. The lighting above them dims and Louis is completely focused on the man across from him.

“I was a lone child who grew up in the village beyond the North Yorkshire County. We never had a lot of technology around; we were a little village with sparse populace. We had a lot of land from when my dad used to be a farmer, he ran off with the village’s mistress. Left all his land, money and family behind. We were a bit well-off, still are, I mean, we lived in a three floored brick house, had a stable, fertile land, and my mum was a seamstress.

“We had this green hillock behind our home, right beyond the fenced wall. There was just this one tree on that hill that stood out away from all the other trees over there. And right by our front gates and on the left side of our house flew a steady, thick stream that was five feet deep. The part of the stream started way beyond the hillock’s edge. And near our stable was where it was its deepest. So inside our walls it was right by our little vegetable garden where we had a well. It was fresh water. But the real beauty was the lake beyond the hillock. The water was so blue that you could probably not distinguish it from a piece of aquamarine. It was a gem amidst green valleys. Mum had a tyre swing tied on our tree on the hillock. It was a peaceful country life. I used to go to the school a town over. It was four kilometres away from the train station. It took me 2 hours to go and 3 hours to come.”

“Why did it take you 3 hours to come back?” Harry asks now completely immersed into the story.

“You see, the tractor man, whose name I never asked, dropped all of us kids at the train station each morning at 7:30, but when coming back home, the man used to be back home already. So I had to walk the 3 kilometres back home. Some nights mum used to pick me up with her jeep. But most nights I walked home. When I got into High school, mum bought me my own truck. I used to be super tired after football practice and my job at the Village Council Hall, so it was quite a relief. I used to crash as soon as I reached home.

“However, I had good grades, so I got a scholarship to Manchester University, they had football there, so after me applying time and time again for a sports scholarship, and it got through. So now the only expenses left for my mum were my rent and food. But that was only one year. Third year, I got hired by Collin Springer & Co. So then by the time I was 21, I already had a settled life. Later that year, I sold my truck and bought myself a better car.

“For three years after that I maintained a healthy relationship with my mum in the village and my life in the city. It wasn’t nearly as busy as London, so I got by easy. The most difficult time was my first year. Traffic noises, loud speakers, people screaming, parties and all that, it was horrifying. I mean, I almost ran back home. But then I think I made it through.

“When I turned 24, I received a call from one of my old friends in the village, Hannah. Here’s where the sad part begins. Hannah called me because mum had collapsed while she was at the weekly market. They said that she was probably overworked and a little sleeplessness and her habit of forgetting to eat food along with her age worked her to her state. They said it wasn’t all that serious.

“I didn’t trust the villagers’ judgement and so I locked up our home back there and made mom come and stay with me in Manchester. I was earning well back then, so we moved into a bigger, better apartment. I made her visit the city doctor and she went along with it. Late May, next year, the doctor suddenly asks mum to get a mammogram and a biopsy. I didn’t realize why, until we had the reports done and then Doctor dropped the bomb at us. Mum had stage four breast cancer. We had at best till January.

“I tried to convince mum to get treatment, but to no avail. I mean, when you have decided to give up thinking you have lived a full life, and then there’s no stopping you. So we moved back to the village. I gave up my job. And we lived how we used to when I was very young. Then one October afternoon, it rained heavily. It was a refreshing sight, thunder and lightning and crashing rain.

“I saw mum leave her armchair across the fireplace and she looked from the back window at the hilltop, the sky was grey and so was a the atmosphere, but it was the kind of grey that makes you feel good. I mean I don’t remember why and how, but we both were stood upon the hilltop, the tree swaying on top of us and the lake below chaotically springing up.

“The wind blowing through leaves and the rustling and dancing of the trees, somehow the wind made us dance too. Her head was right here on my chest and my heart was so loud. She was looking the best she ever had. And our hearts didn’t weep for a minute. Then she quietly looked up and said, ‘Lou. I know when I go you will be sad. I know I’ll miss you too. But look back at all the good times we’ve had and don’t taint them with tears. I hope you know, I loved you the most. My precious little child, my angel. In the coming years, I just hope you find love and you find more. This life wasn’t fair to me when I was young, but ever since the day I knew I was pregnant, life turned over for me. It was the happiest life I ever thought I could live and knowing you were a part of this only makes me believe in this truth.’

“In the month of December, right before my birthday, mum passed on. 81 people attended the funeral, I was the only one related by blood. The villagers sent my father a letter telling him mum had died. So on the 13th day, the day of my birthday, he came back to turn over the property details. I thought life couldn’t get crueller. Take away my mother and a heartless father comes back for property?” Louis ended in a question.

“What happened then?” Harry asked, the food on their plates remained untouched.

“Well you see, it turns out life wasn’t all that cruel. The land originally belonged to mum and I was the nominee and the heir, not a pence came to my father and he tried fighting over it with me. You see this scar on my forehead, my dad attacked me with a scotch bottle for rejecting him and his other family.” Louis laughed.

“After that however, to drown out my sorrows I slept with Hannah, the first and last woman I had sex with. The regret and shame made me decide to come back to the city. By spring, I sold off my old apartment in Manchester and moved to London. Completed my masters here and joined the company I am working for now. By October 2014, I realized I am into men and that is why it was I who puked in the midst of having sex with a woman, with Hannah.” Louis laughs and Harry looks with a stunned and awed face.

“You puked, in the middle of sex. Are you fucking me, oh my god. You are an ultimate gay, wow. I can’t even believe it. Jesus Christ, man. Anyways, how did you realize you were gay?” Harry asks, laughter subsiding.

“I had a co-worker back then, Sebastian Sutcliff, major hoe, so he had this weird aura about him and I liked him, but it was quite weird. He smoked weed, went to fashion shows, and on weekends he wore nothing but plaid. So one day, he suddenly walks by my desk, turns the corner and then walks back without turning around, stops right behind me and says, “See, Tommo, don’t let this get to your head, but I like you. Saturday, 8 PM, Angela’s Bar on 6th and 21st.  I’ll be waiting.” I thought he was asking me out as a friend. But anyways I ended up going and it was a gay strip bar. It’s closed now, you probably won’t find it anyways.

“So listen, I go there and he is sat there, with a floral suit on and a sequin fedora on head. I mean, the suit was so tight I could literally see that he was free-balling, but let me tell you, did he look hot. He did. Spoiler alert, we slept together, lots of times, before we caught feelings for each other and had to break it off. I mean, he was good, extremely good, but a relationship, with him wasn’t ideal. So I was down in the dumps and so was he. We couldn’t even look at each other without his eyes turning red, he was a crier, no problem with that, but when your presence itself makes someone miserable, you start feeling miserable yourself. And then the worst thing happened. I got promoted to Assistant Manager and leader of team 6, in which he used to work. He couldn’t stand it and he resigned.

“I missed him. But he had opened my eyes. My child-like wonder for the world which I had lost after I lost my mum, it wasn’t a lost cause returning them back to then, it was a journey I would have to face. So I was ready to face love, heartbreak, pain and happiness and whatever else the world had to throw at me. And I knew my mum wasn’t wrong. I shouldn’t lose heart over every small thing. I should have hope and excitement buried within me. I didn’t want to become that meme where that guy says, ‘these are my thoughts and my emotions’ and then he points to his chest and he says, ‘I’ll bury them here till I die.’ I mean, people nowadays do that, it doesn’t help to be quiet about your pain. There’s help everywhere. All you need to do is ask and have hope that this too shall pass.”Louis finished.

“Without hope there isn’t anything to this world, is there?” Harry asks.

“Kampai!” Louis says raising his sake cup.

“Kampai!” Harry resonates.

Louis was more than just an average man, he was a lovely, homely type. Harry wanted to know more. He _hoped_ to know more.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a Wordplay prompt challenge that a group of us are participating in for the prompt "Hope". To read the amazing fics that were written by the others on this prompt, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wordplay_hope/works), and to see all fics written as part of the challenge, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wordplay_fic_challenge/works) or find the masterpost for this year’s challenge here.


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